


The Seventh Seal

by Tyloric



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: BAMF Phil Coulson, But that's not what happened, Chess, Experimental, Fix-It, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Phil finally gets that Phoenix Down he so desperately needed., Resurrection, Second Chances, This was supposed to be a character study, Undeath, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyloric/pseuds/Tyloric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death challenges Phil to a game of chess. Because it's just one of those days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seventh Seal

**Author's Note:**

> When I started writing this I had intended it to be a companion piece to [Red in His Ledger](http://archiveofourown.org/works/568919).
> 
> As you can see, that's not what happened.

The world goes white and for a moment Phil feels weightless. For several seconds he forgets what is happening, forgets where he is, forgets himself. His world is nothing but the screaming white agony that is tearing out of his chest and spreading rapidly to every limb. When the world finally snaps back into focus, he understands his situation with an almost hyper-clarity that is quickly overwhelmed by a black cloud that begins to close in the periphery of his vision. He slides down the wall, his legs no longer able to support his weight.   
  
The cage isn’t there anymore, he realizes. Loki must have ejected it and Thor. Dammit.  
  
Phil’s speaking now, to Loki, but he’s not quite hearing himself, as if he is wearing ear plugs. Loki faces him to reply, but he doesn’t hear it (and he honestly just doesn’t give a fuck).  
  
Phil then becomes aware of the weight in his lap, and would you look at that: he has a big ass gun. Never one to miss an a shining opportunity, Phil pulls the trigger. The (Phil has decided to call it his Pop Gun) lets out a dull wub sound and in a flash of light Loki is flying backwards, slamming through the rear bulkhead and Phil is absolutely shameless about how satisfying that feels.  
  
“So that’s what it does,” and of course now he can understand himself.  
  
And then he’s alone, the room filled with an almost eerie silence. Phil sits back against the wall and waits, because what else can he do? Cold begins to creep along his limbs and everything starts to go numb (and this is where he’s pretty certain he’s well and thoroughly fucked).  
  
Phil stares at the ceiling and thinks. He’s a bit sad that he can’t say goodbye to anyone, and really disappointed that this is how he’s going to die. Stabbed in the back by the fucking Norse god. He can already imagine Barton’s laughter.  
  
Oh god, Barton.  
  
He closes his eyes and tries not to worry. _Barton will be fine_ , he tells himself. _Natasha will give it her all to save him_.   
  
But that only brings up a more worrying thought. If _(when)_ Barton comes back to his senses, what will he be feeling? Anger, sorrow, regret...  
  
Guilt.  
  
 _Be strong, Clint,_ Phil tries to project these thoughts, willing them to reach his lost agent. _There are plenty of people who are going to want to help you. You just have to let them_.  
  
Nick Fury comes into his field of view and blinks. Phil tries to give a weak smile but can only manage to get his lips to twitch.  
  
“Don’t die, agent. That’s an order,” Fury tells him as if it’s the simplest thing in world. Phil starts to respond, the pieces only coming in gasps as the blackness starts to close in on him relentlessly.  
  
The words, quite literally, die on Phil’s lips.  
  
-  
  
Phil opens his eyes and finds that he’s standing in a room. The most defining features about said room are what it is made of. The walls, ceiling and floor are black as night but refract light at sharp and ragged angles, as if they’re made of some sort of crystal. _Obsidian_ , Phil’s mind supplies. He can see no light sources, yet the room is illuminated evenly.   
  
In the certain of the room there is a stone table, and on that table rests a chest set. Surrounding the table are two stone chairs.   
  
And sitting in one of those chairs in a figure in a matt grey robe. This person (a man, Phil decides) has turned his head at Phil, his hands resting in his lap, but Phil cannot see past the shadows that seem to engulf his face. That shouldn’t happen, Phil thinks. It’s not nearly dark enough.  
  
“Join me,” the man says and Phil has never heard a voice like it before. It is deep and hoarse, the sound of an old man, but there is an edge that cuts through the air so sharply that Phil can feel it in his gut. His instincts instantly start shouting at him telling Phil that this is not a person to be challenged, that he would have no hope of coming out on top in a confrontation with this (being?). Phil knows, with absolutely certainty, that the robed figure’s words are law here. He has no choice but to obey.  
  
So Phil walks over, his shoes making a distinct clacking noise against the glass floors that echoes around the room. Because everything is utterly silent otherwise, Phil can’t help but feel a bit unnerved. He’s been in strange and intense situations before and he is an expert at pushing his emotions aside. Through sheer willpower he forces the tension out of his shoulder, keeping his features relaxed, while still remaining hyper-alert. He sits in the chair opposite the man, the stone cold and uncomfortable under Phil, and he notes that he is sitting on the side of the white player on the chessboard.  
  
The man nods his head in acknowledgment and Phil follows suit.  
  
“Philip John Colsoun,” the man says and Phil can’t help but suck in a deep breath. “Do you know who I am?” The question surprises Phil because, yes. Yes, he does.  
  
“You are death.” He tries to keep his words level, but polite.  
  
The silence that follows is thick, almost suffocating.  
  
“Do you fear me?” Death asks. The question feels heavy, and Phil can’t help but phrase his reply very carefully.  
  
“I fear what you are capable of. I fear your origin.”  
  
Death seems to consider this.  
  
“Do you fancy a game?” He sweeps a hand over the board. His fingers are shriveled, the skin tight, as if there is no muscle there, only bone and flesh.  
  
Phil opens his mouth to ask what he means, but what comes out is, “A bit cliche, isn’t it, Death asking to play chess?” What the hell.  
  
He is given a chuckle that makes Phil think of bones being crushed under foot.  
  
“Perhaps. But we all have things that give us comfort.”  
  
The wording gives Phil pause. “Comfort?”  
  
Death offers no reply, simply looks at him expectantly. The quiet hangs between them and finally Phil decides that he really doesn’t have a choice in the matter, and looks down at the board.  
  
He is white. The opening move is Phil’s. He moves his pawn to d4, and the game has begun.  
  
His opponent regards the board very briefly before selecting the pawn opposite Phil’s, moving it forward two spaces to d5.  
  
“Indeed, comfort,” Death says suddenly. “Do you think I am without emotion, Philip?”  
  
“Not at all,” Phil moves his pawn to c4.  
  
Pawn to e6. “Then why do you seem so surprised?”  
  
 _Because your mere presence is making it difficult to think_. Phil stares down at the game for a long moment.  
  
“Comfort implies that you are in pain in some way.” Knight to c3. “I wonder what could pain Death.”  
  
Death’s next move is immediate. Knight to f6. He’s also laughing which, honestly, is not a pleasant sound.  
  
“You are wise, Philip.”  
  
He shakes his head. “Not wise, just observant.” There is a rumble of thunder which is actually Death humming noncommittally. Phil doesn’t flinch, but it’s a close thing.  
  
The game continues on with neither of them speaking, and Phil is glad that he has something to focus his on, that he has been presented a task that he is comfortable with.  
  
“You have yet to ask me why you are here,” Death notes.  
  
He shrugs. “I remember dying.” Phil takes Death’s pawn at d5, who retaliates in turn with another pawn. “That’s reason enough, I suppose.”  
  
Death is, unsurprisingly, is both ruthless and unrelenting in his advance, but Phil finds that he is not intimidated by this. He is planning several moves ahead, trying to anticipate where the enemy will be. They seem to be matched in terms of skill.  
  
Which is weird.  
  
“Are you holding back?” Phil asks.  
  
“I am not,” and the that is so shocking that Phil finds he’s not certain how to respond, so he backtracks.  
  
“What is bringing you pain, if I may?”  
  
Death does not immediately answer. For a long while the only sound that can be heard is the occasional tap of the game pieces against the chessboard.  
  
“Check,” Phil says. Death laughs again.  
  
“I am an avatar, Philip. I represent mortality. I represent the end of things. I am Death.”  
  
The game continues, both players moving matching one another play for play, push and pull, a sort of perverse dance.  
  
Realization hits Phil like a punch to the stomach. “You’re lonely.”  
  
“Indeed.” Death takes Phil’s knight. “Countless billions have passed through my halls. When I encounter a soul that does not fear me, I ask them for a game.”  
  
And as strange as it is, Phil finds that he can relate. He wonders what it means that he can sympathize with a being such as this.  
  
Phil has a question that he’s not sure he wants the answer to, but he can’t help but ask it anyway. “And how many people have passed through your halls today?”  
  
Death sighs very sadly and his shoulders fall. “The same as in another other war, Philip.” He takes Phil’s bishop. “Too many.”  
  
“How long have I been here, exactly?”  
  
“Time is relative.” That sort of evasiveness irritates Phil. He takes Death’s rook, out of spite.  
  
He decides to take a different approach. “Have any of my friends come through?” Phil can’t be sure, but the air suddenly feels less oppressive.   
  
“No.” The word carries power and the relief it brings Phil is so overwhelming that he is silently grateful that he is already sitting down, and lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.  
  
“Check,” Phil says on his next move.  
  
The game continued yet again, slowly building in its intensity. Phil was gaining ground, he was winning. Until finally...  
  
Queen to h7, takes pawn. “Checkmate,” he declares. The chess board evaporates in a cloud of smoke, followed by a strong gust of air and Phil can’t help but reel backwards at the suddenness of it.  
  
Death is laughing again, but now it sounds genuine, hearty... _nice_. It was completely different without the bitterness from before.  
  
“Well done, Philip John Coulson. A worthy opponent indeed.”  
  
“It was fun,” Phil agrees, a bit shocked to find that it’s true.  
  
“You are the first to best in many centuries.”   
  
He blinks, because, what? “Just lucky, I’m sure.”   
  
“Nonsense. It was a battle of wits, and you outsmarted me. Few are capable of such.” Death declares with finality. He waves a hand over the table. A small glass vial appears in the center, filled with a blood red liquid.  
  
“And as an award, I offer you a choice.”  
  
Phil’s eyebrows raise. “What kind of choice?”  
  
“Whether or not you choose to live. The contents of this vial will force your soul to go onwards, wherever that may be. Or you can choose life.”  
  
He blinks. “I can... go back?” Death nods and says nothing. It should be an easy decision. But for some reason, it isn’t.  
  
“You hesitate. Why?”  
  
“Because I died,” Phil doesn’t know where these thoughts, these feelings, are coming from exactly, but they ring true. “I died. The natural order of things says that I should stay dead. How can anyone appreciate life without death? I do want to go back, but-”  
  
Death hold up a hand to silence him. “You are wise indeed, Philip John Coulson. You see the world for what it is. You see not only the grey, but also the color, the truth of things. I do not offer this gift lightly. In fact,” he leans forward, “you are the first I have ever offered it to.”  
  
And that clears that right up, doesn’t it? “Then I would like to live, yes.”  
  
“So it is done,” and Death removes his hood.  
  
There is no face, only a smooth plain of grey flesh and he meets Phil’s eyes.  
  
In those eyes Phil can see an ocean that has no bottom, a sun so bright that the water boils. He feels in the endless power, feels the sheer raw potential in his bones, and as he opens his mouth to scream Philip John Coulson is consumed.  
  
-  
  
Phil jolts awake screaming, his chest on fire, tears stinging his eyes.

And feeling so gloriously _alive._

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the 1957 film [The Seventh Seal](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0050976/), from which this story was inspired. 
> 
> The chess game is based loosely on the Hastings 1895 match [Harry Nelson Pillsbury vs Siegbert Tarrasch](http://www.chessgames.com/perl/chessgame?gid=1109079).


End file.
